June 15th, 2014; Ethiopia…
Tony gazed out the open door as the helicopter circled the compound below. Spotlights on the walls illuminated the surrounding jungle as well as the soldiers training in the yard. Several jeeps were parked in one corner, while men carried munitions crates into the main building. After circling twice, the helicopter came to land on the helipad built just inside the wall.
Tony hopped out, keeping his head low as the rotors began cycling down. He'd recently incorporated a grey half cape to his armour that hung down to his ankles from the back of his belt. A little impractical and flashy, but he'd always loved a good cape. Walking down the steps, he was met by a middle-aged man with grey hair, thin lips, and cold, calculating eyes. He wore a dark jacket with a red scarf around his neck. The man held out a hand and said, "I'm Mitchell Carson. Thanks for arriving so promptly."
"Well, you and your associates did write me a sizable check," Tony pointed out, nodding to his latest client.
"Indeed," Carson said, guiding him across the yard. "You come highly recommended, and your reputation is impressive."
"I should hope so."
"While I'm sure you'll more than live up to the hype, I'm not the one you have to convince."
The main building's front doors opened as four men armed with AK-47s escorted a fifth. He wore camouflage like his men, but his was decorated with gold epaulets and stars on the collar. His sleeves were rolled up, and he wore a red beret with a cross around his neck. A lit cigar hung from his lips.
"A word of caution," Carson whispered as they approached. "The general is a man of…intense passions. Try not to cause any problems."
"I won't if he doesn't," Tony replied, crossing his arms.
General Melaku Assefa Bogale came to stand in front of them, his escort lining up on either side. Carson opened his mouth to speak, but a raised hand stopped him. The general regarded Tony for a protracted silence, staring into the eyes of his mask. Tony never broke eye contact, standing his ground.
Finally, Melaku took the cigar from his mouth. Breathing out a plume of smoke, he asked, "This is him?"
Taking this as his cue, Carson replied, "Yes, general. I'd like to introduce Taskmaster."
"Pleasure," Tony said, marginally inclining his head.
Melaku snorted. "He acts like a child, dressing in such a costume."
"I can assure you, general, this man is the best at what he does."
He didn't appear convinced, shaking his head. "There are too many costumed freaks in the world, strutting around like Peacocks attracting a mate. How do I know he is worth the money I am paying you, Carson?"
"Let me put it this way," Tony interjected. "You've been fighting your civil war for, what? Two years? Now that you have me here to train your men, you won't be fighting a war. You'll be winning one."
"You are that confident?"
"I can only promise your men will be learning from the best. The rest is up to them."
Melaku stepped forward, standing uncomfortably close. Taking a drag from his cigar, he blew smoke into Tony's mask. Luckily the mask filtered it out. "Are you a man of God, Taskmaster?"
"Sure, if you want me to be." Tony raised his hand, palm out. "Hail Zorp."
"God has spoken to me in my dreams. Do you understand? This government is weak. Powerless. But by His will, I will remove those useless bureaucrats and guide my people to true greatness. You will help me do this. In return, you will become a rich man." He turned and walked away, saying, "You will train my men immediately."
Tony watched him leave. "Charming."
Carson nodded. "Yes. He is rather…eccentric."
"Then it's a good thing I'm working for you, and not him."
"Despite his colourful personality, he's a useful tool. My organization will benefit from an alliance with a sympathetic dictator in power."
"That organization being HYDRA," Tony pointed out.
Carson regarded him with a bemused smirk. "I see you've done your homework."
"I like to go into a situation prepared."
"That's very pragmatic of you. I understand you've taken jobs with us in the past."
Tony shrugged. "Gotta make a living somehow."
"Of course."
Looking around the compound, he said, "I think I'd better get started. Wouldn't want Idi Amin Jr. to start quoting Bible passages at me."
It didn't take long for Tony to realize he had his work cut out for him. Melaku's soldiers had halfway decent training, but they'd gotten lazy, too used to intimidating helpless villagers. Their instincts were woefully underdeveloped, their tactical skills barely a tick above 'nonexistent'.
The current regime was supported by the CIA, which meant the loyalist faction enjoyed American military training, slush funds, and more modern weaponry. Benefits of democracy. Tony and the knowledge he offered was the only thing that'd give Melaku a chance in hell of winning the civil war. A fact he planned to leverage to the hilt in order to get the best payment. Carson and his branch of HYDRA seemed to have more than enough, considering they were bankrolling the general's campaign.
When not actively training the compound's garrison, he worked closely with Melaku and his senior officers. He laid out the kinds of tactics and weapons the enemy would bring, advising the best ways to counter them. One officer, a colonel with old burns across one arm, questioned why they bothered with a freak like him. Tony politely challenged the man to a one-on-one sparring match. Using only his hands and a set of Captain America's moves, he whooped the colonel's ass in five consecutive bouts, each lasting less than thirty seconds.
No one else objected to his presence after that.
One evening, after a long day running drills with the soldiers, he retired to his bunk in the barracks. The only one in the building with its own walls, since all the officers slept inside the main building. Tony had learned to sleep in his armour. Maria and the Avengers might have known his true identity, but thus far it seemed they were keeping that knowledge close to their chests. The world didn't know who was behind the skull mask, and he felt no need to share that information.
His thoughts drifted to Samantha as he slowly drifted off to sleep, wishing he could hold her in his arms again. As soon as his eyes closed, he opened them as a knock sounded at his door. "What now?" Tony grumbled, getting off the uncomfortable cot. Opening the door, he found a skinny private standing there, brow glistening with sweat. "What?"
"Apologies, sir," the private said, speaking with a near-incomprehensible accent. "But one of our perimeter patrols has failed to report in."
Tony frowned, the warning in his gut washing away the lingering vestiges of sleep. "How long ago?"
"Four minutes. Two men were sent to look for them, but they have not returned."
Something was most definitely wrong.
Tony brushed past the private, who struggled to keep up as he made his way out into the yard. The spotlights on the walls blazed like miniature suns against the blackness that swallowed the jungle outside. He tapped into the base radio frequency. "This is Taskmaster. All patrols, report in immediately."
"Position one, all good."
"Position two, all good."
"Position three, all go–" the man's voice devolved into an agonized gurgle. Tony whirled to look at the position on the western stretch of wall. One of the soldiers fell off, crashing into the hood of a parked jeep. Tony zoomed in with his mask's lenses, managing to catch a lightning-quick shape dart past a spotlight.
Then, every single light shut off at the same instant.
Tony growled as his mask's HUD disappeared. The private's radio emitted a tortured shriek as the radio signals were overloaded. "Shit!"
"What happened?" the private asked, raising his AK and aiming it all around.
"Somebody set off a frickin' EMP," he explained. "We just lost everything electronic in the compound." He drew the bow he kept in his backpack, extending it with a flick of the wrist. Selecting a trick arrow and knocking it, Tony aimed straight into the air. "Fortunately, I think I can shed a little light on the situation." He loosed the arrow. Once it reached its highest point, the tip deployed a trio of magnesium flares. The black night burst into bright shades of crimson that bathed the surroundings.
"I will rally the others," the private said. "Then we can–"
Something zoomed past Tony, and the private's words were cut short. He turned to see the man laying on the ground several feet away. Blood seeped from five deep claw marks across his chest, and the private choked and sputtered. There was nothing to be done. What caught Tony's attention, however, was the figure standing over the dying private.
It must have been the shape he'd seen just before they lost power. The figure stood tall with a muscular build, dressed in some kind of armour. Black, with silver teeth on the collar and a helmet with pointed ears that resembled a cat's. Tony had to admit it looked awesome, and felt more than a bit jealous. The flaring light from the flares overhead glinted across the suit, highlighting the intricate patterns of silver on black.
"Well here's something new," he said. "You escape from the zoo, big guy?"
The figure crouched low like the Panther he resembled. He flexed his fingers, displaying a matching set of wicked claws. The same ones that just carved through a man's clothes and skin with the ease of moving through air.
"So, it's gonna be like that." Tony nodded. "Well come here, kitty, kitty. I've got a treat for ya." Using Hawkeye's moves, he knocked an armour-piercing arrow and loosed it quicker than most men could react.
The Panther figure reacted faster than expected, and caught the arrow with one hand. He then tossed it aside and charged. Tony knocked another arrow, but the other man leaped up and dropkicked him in the chest. He tumbled back, rolling so he'd get back on his feet. The Panther came at him again. This time, he raised his left arm and extended his shield. The claws scraped against it, creating a spine-chilling shriek of tortured metal.
Backing up, Tony took a quick glance at his shield, noting the gouges. "Huh."
He hurled the shield at the Panther, who performed an impressive flip that didn't seem achievable by a normal person. Tony then drew a pistol with his left hand and started shooting. The bullets struck with no effect, bouncing off the black suit like rocks against tank armour.
"Bulletproof, too?" he asked. "Okay, you gotta put me in contact with your tailor. That suit is dope as hell!"
It occurred to him in that moment that he hadn't heard any other sounds of gunfire. By now, the perimeter guards should have been swarming the yard. Unless they were otherwise distracted or incapacitated. A glint of something metal caught his eye on the roof of the main building. Knocking another arrow, he aimed without looking by using Hawkeye's infamous accuracy and loosed.
A distinctly feminine cry followed a second later.
Tony looked up and saw a woman dressed in red with metal pieces covering the neck, arms, and legs. She had a bare scalp, and wielded some kind of long spear. His arrow stuck out of her chest, near the clavicle, as she knelt in pain. Several more women, similarly armed and armoured, were on the roof also. One of them helped his target up as the rest moved out of view. Tony spotted an unconscious Melaku being dragged by his arms. He must have been their target all along.
The Panther came at him again. Tony tried to use his bow as a staff and swing at his opponent's head. The Panther ducked, claws scraping across his thigh armour, then wrenched the bow from his hands and tore it in half with barely an effort.
"Aw, come on!" Tony protested. "Do you know how expensive that was?"
Drawing a large tactical knife, he employed a combo of Captain America and the Winter Soldier's moves. He and the Panther weaved back and forth, punching and slashing and dodging with finesse. Tony noted the other man's style as they fought, studying the movements carefully. The Panther fought beyond what even the greatest athlete should have been capable of. Either his suit gave enhanced strength and reflexes, or he'd been juicing on a special cocktail like Steve Rogers.
The man moved much like an actual Panther, utilizing a beautiful combination of strength and agility. It took everything Tony had –all the skills he'd memorized and catalogued– just to keep up. He pushed himself to his limit. By employing Rogers' and Barnes' more spectacular moves, he could actually force his muscles to hit harder than normal and his body to move faster than normal.
Not being superhuman, though, doing such things took a physical toll. At one point, he managed to perform a Captain America spinning kick that knocked the Panther back. However, the move pulled several muscles in his leg, leaving him with a slight limp.
After overextending on a Winter Soldier knife slash, he left himself open. The Panther took advantage by wrapping an arm around his, then spinning in place and throwing him across the yard.
Tony landed hard, rolling until he hit one of the jeeps. A hail of bullets struck the Panther as the rest of the garrison finally emerged from the barracks. Instead of engaging them, the Panther turned and ran towards the main building. Tony watched him leap a full storey onto the perimeter wall, then onto the building wall. Digging his claws into the concrete, he climbed the rest of the way and disappeared from view.
Tony groaned as he stood, wiping dirt from his armour. Carson and a few others emerged from the main building's front door, weapons in hand. They stepped out into the yard as something resonated with a bass thrum over the roof, then disappeared into the night sky.
"Just what the hell happened?"
Picking up the broken halves of his bow, Tony replied, "Hell if I know. And I may be no expert, but our whole point in being here was to support the general. So with him gone, looks like the job's finished. How are we gonna settle this?"
Carson regarded him with an unreadable expression. Then, he stepped in close and whispered, "I think we can both recognize a lost cause when we see one. Without Melaku, his faction will fall apart to infighting. But you fulfilled your part of the arrangement. We're done here. Get me safely to Addis Ababa so I can arrange transport out of the country, and you'll get your payment."
Tony nodded. "Done."
"Hold still," Okoye said as she and T'Challa held the injured Dora Milaje down. The general waved her bracelet of Kimoyo Beads over the woman's shoulder, then opened her hand. One of the beads rolled into her palm, displaying a hologram of the injured woman's torso. The arrow was highlighted in red, and Okoye frowned. "The shaft is a specialized polymer, much stronger than carbon fiber. And the arrowhead is Teflon-coated titanium, serrated. It's imbedded in her collarbone. We'll have to treat her back home."
"I am fine," the Dora Milaje protested, wincing. "It is nothing."
"Rest, now," T'Challa said, cupping her shoulder. "You did well tonight."
"Thank you, my prince."
He and Okoye moved near the cockpit as the Royal Talon Fighter soared through the skies of Ethiopia. The general sighed, crossing her arms. "That could have gone smoother."
T'Challa nodded. "Agreed. That mercenary gave me more trouble than I was expecting. Do we know who he is?"
Okoye took out a holographic pad, scrolling through pages of information. "Based on his equipment, it appears his name is…Taskmaster. Wanted in several countries, charges high costs for his services, known for offering combat and tactical training to criminals and private security firms."
"Towards the end of our fight, he began exhibiting a few of my moves. It was almost as if…"
She arched an eyebrow. "As if what?"
"As if he was replicating my movements as we fought. If it had gone on any longer, who knows what might have happened?"
"Based on the intelligence I'm seeing, this Taskmaster has clashed with members of the Avengers in the past. Anyone who can do that and walk away is a formidable foe."
"Hm. Put him on our watchlist. I think it is a good idea for us to be aware of his dealings."
"Done."
He turned to look at the bound and gagged General Melaku at the back of the fighter, guarded by a trio of the Dora Milaje contingent. "In the meantime, my father will be pleased. He has never tolerated human traffickers."
Okoye glared at their captive. "Especially one who has kidnapped and sold our own people."
"Yes," T'Challa agreed. He then stared out the cockpit, eager to return to Wakanda after a successful mission.
July 7th, 2014; Tarapoto, Peru…
Ellen and Rumlow walked along the sidewalk, wading through the large crowds of tourists and locals. She wore a faded ballcap and sunglasses, dressed in a pale blue V-neck shirt and black jeans. Rumlow wore a red bandana over his mouth and nose and large aviators to cover his eyes, along with a ballcap and thick leather jacket ill-suited for the warm equatorial climate.
Motorized rickshaws criss-crossed the busy streets, creating a deafening din that made it hard to think. The pair strolled across a crosswalk, coming upon a long row of parked scooters in front of a strip of businesses. Despite the heavy disguise Rumlow wore, people still stared at him as they passed by. A group of children pointed, wiggling their ears. It made Ellen chuckle, while her companion growled.
"I look like a fucking desperado in this," he grumbled.
"Hey, it's not my fault you look like you took a dip in an acid bath. This is the best we could do."
After spending days in the cramped shipping container, they'd snuck out after the ship made port in Mexico. From there, they traveled south, stealing whatever they needed. Food, clothes, cars, anything. With no monetary assets to speak of, they'd resorted to sleeping in abandoned buildings and back alleys. Ellen made sure to position herself far away from and facing Rumlow, at least one hand on a weapon if he tried anything.
At present, he was a wild animal, one she managed to leash. That didn't take away from his danger.
She always made sure he fell asleep first, sometimes waiting close to an hour to make sure he wasn't faking. Situational stress kept her up half the night anyway. What little sleep Ellen did get would be plagued by nightmares. Most times, she saw her father's execution. More than a few nights, her mother knelt on the council chamber floor, begging before Nick Fury shot her in the head or Natasha Romanoff strangled her with a garrotte wire.
Every morning, Ellen awoke tired and angrier than the day before.
The weeks of travel across Mexico and Central America had been mostly quiet, apart from a couple hiccups. Someone must have identified them in Honduras, as they'd barely avoided capture by a heavily armed CIA black ops team. Then in Colombia, just outside Cali, a group of men had cornered her and Rumlow while they'd been walking along a rural road to rob them. The pair had dumped all nine bodies in the bush and pushed on to Popayán through the night without stopping. Rumlow complained every minute, but luckily he shut up whenever she mentioned the detonator. She'd dreamed of having the ability to silence him since they met.
"Why the hell didn't we go to the supply station in Lima?" he asked as they turned into a side street. "It's got vehicles and all the equipment we could ever need."
"And it was also listed in our secure servers on the S.H.I.E.L.D. data net," Ellen pointed out. "The same one that Black Widow released online. Even if someone hasn't cracked the encryption of our station locations already, I don't want to take that chance. The last thing I need is to cross paths with the Avengers or General Talbot."
Rumlow scoffed. "Can't believe they chose that prick to spearhead the government's response."
"Pot, meet kettle," Ellen mumbled. "Either way, this is a safer option. I've got a cache in town with enough gear and funds to get us by."
"How many of these do you have?"
"One on every continent. Two back in the States. This one seemed the best choice; it's easier to disappear in this part of the world. We need to lay low until we're ready to make our move."
A motorized rickshaw drove past, loaded with bright orange balloons. The rickshaw behind it bore an elderly tourist couple taking pictures of their surroundings. Ellen and Rumlow made sure to look away so their faces wouldn't get photographed. As they headed into a more suburban area, Rumlow shook his head. "You actually believe you can fulfill HYDRA's goals by yourself? Your old man had billions worth of assets, global resources and all of S.H.I.E.L.D. at his beck and call. Didn't do him a damn bit of good, did it?"
Ellen turned and shoved him against a fence, glaring into his sunglasses. "Let's get one thing straight: you will never, EVER, mention my father again. Understand? I don't need you for anything. I see a use for you. But keep pissing me off, and I'll happily get your brains all over myself just to shut you up for good. Got it?"
His deformed lips curled in a mocking grin.
"Got it?" she repeated, her tolerance waning by the second.
"Yeah, I got it," he said in a casual tone. He almost sounded too casual, but something in the back of her mind told her to believe him.
Releasing her grip, she resumed walking down the quiet street. "HYDRA has always thrived when one of us devotes ourself to the mission. Zola was the only one who survived the '40s, and look how much he gave us."
"And now, half of us are dead or incarcerated, while the other half is scattered across the planet in pieces. Not exactly inspiring."
"All it takes is one," she replied as they came upon a decrepit, abandoned house on the corner. "This is it."
"This?" he asked as they walked through the open doorway. Empty rooms were covered in layers of dust, with peeling wallpaper and creaking floors.
Ellen walked over to the far corner of the living room. She placed her thumb on the wall, just above the moulding. The scanner beeped, and a piece of the moulding popped loose. Sliding it up, she reached into the gap and turned the handle counter clockwise. A four foot by eight section of floor on the other side of the room slid open, revealing a set of stairs leading into a basement.
Rumlow clicked his tongue. "Neat."
They descended into the basement, and she flicked the light switch. The concrete space was marked by a trio of metal lockers on one wall, a table in the centre, and a small bathroom. "Guns and ammo in here," she said, gesturing to the locker on the right. While Rumlow grabbed what he needed from there, Ellen opened the leftmost locker. Inside was one of her green catsuits –complete with an electro whip gauntlet– and drawers with fresh clothes.
Grabbing the catsuit and a change of clothes, she entered the bathroom. Shedding her shirt and jeans, she paused and stared at her reflection. Ellen pushed the fringe of hair out of the way, revealing the scars she kept hidden. They criss-crossed her right cheek and temple at jagged angles –splitting her eyebrow in two places– as if a child had recklessly drawn them. A lasting reminder of her failure, given to her by the only other man she cared about besides her father.
The man who'd ruined her life. With a sneer, she punched the mirror, shattering it.
She ignored the pain from her cut knuckles. Undoing her bun, Ellen let her hair hang loose, making sure it covered the right half of her face as much as possible. Then, she slipped on her catsuit before putting on a t-shirt, fresh jeans, and a black jacket. A breath of relief escaped her lips, as she felt less naked and vulnerable now. Stepping out, she saw Rumlow checking the clip of a 9mm pistol. He loaded it and stuffed it into the back of his pants. "Too bad we can't carry more equipment."
"That'll happen when we get some more resources," she said. "Vehicles, personnel."
"And how are we supposed to get those?" he asked.
"With the only thing that makes the world go round." Ellen opened the middle locker, which contained racks of knives of varying sizes as well as numerous bottles and containers, each with a different type of poison, venom, or acid. "Money."
September, 2014; Lisbon, Portugal…
Ellen looked through her binoculars, scanning the inbound traffic. She'd situated herself on a roof overlooking the street, dressed in her catsuit. Cars drove by, people walked along the sidewalks, and everyone went about their lives without a care in the world. Rumlow waited below, behind the wheel of a bus they'd commandeered.
Three days of watching the nearest bank, noting guard rotations, closest available police, possible exit routes, the works. Robbing the bank itself would be too high-risk, Ellen decided. Especially with just two people. But like every other bank in the world, this one had to transport its money. That came in the form of an armored truck service, which used this street as part of its daily route. Tricky to rob, but not impossible.
Looking to the left, she spotted the white truck merging from an intersection. "Got 'em," she spoke into the walkie talkie. "They're coming our way."
"Copy that."
Ellen waited a few more seconds, then once the truck was close enough, she said, "Now." Below, Rumlow drove straight out into the street. The armored truck slammed its breaks, but too late to prevent crashing into the side of the bus, as did several other vehicles. The flow of traffic came to a grinding halt amid a flurry of horns.
Putting her binoculars away, Ellen extended her whip. She threw it at a light pole, and it wrapped tight. She then hopped off the roof and swung down to the street, landing on her feet. By this point, people started getting out of their cars, dazed and confused at the sudden turn of events. Ellen drew the pistol from her thigh holster and shot into the air three times, scattering the civilians. It felt strange, acting so openly with her real face. In the past, her disguise had protected her, like a cloak of anonymity.
Now, with her secret out, the whole world got to see the real Ellen Pierce.
She approached the truck's back door. Holstering the pistol, she took out a small metal spray can from a belt pouch. A few gunshots popped from the front as Rumlow dealt with the driver. Aiming the can's nozzle at the edge of the sealed door, Ellen began spraying all along the sides and top as Rumlow joined her, holding a pair of duffle bags.
"Step back," she cautioned. The acid immediately melted through the metal with a sickening sizzle and crackle. Originally developed by S.H.I.E.L.D. R&D, Ellen had used her influence to shut down the project and keep the molecular acid for herself. As promised, it worked like a charm, eating through the door edges in seconds.
The doors themselves, now free of their moorings, fell forward and hit the pavement.
"Not bad," Rumlow said. The second guard sitting in the rear compartment tried to aim his weapon, but Rumlow proved to be far quicker on the draw. He shot the man in the head.
They climbed in the back. Taking one of the duffle bags, Ellen grabbed stacks of Euros and stuffed them inside. Checking her watch, she saw that sixty seconds had elapsed. "Time to go."
"But the bags aren't even half full," he protested.
"Doesn't matter. Any more, and they'll be too heavy. They'd slow us down. Come on." They hopped down as sirens wailed in the distance. Ellen spotted three police cars stopped by the traffic jam they'd created. The officers got out and weaved their way between the cars. Taking out a smoke grenade, Ellen pulled the pin and tossed it behind her and Rumlow as they ran down the side street.
A short time later, they managed to sneak back to their hideout, an abandoned clothing store. Sweeping the half-broken mannequins off the nearest table, they set the bags down and started counting bills.
"So," Rumlow said, setting the final stack on the pile, "that leaves us with…"
Ellen did the math in her head, double-checking the numbers. "Just shy of a quarter million Euros."
"We could have gotten a lot more than this."
"Yeah, and by then the police would've been on our asses. That leads to a shootout in the streets, bodies, and more attention than I'd like." She gestured to the pile. "This is enough to get started."
He crossed his arms. "Not quite the billions you're used to, is it?"
Ellen replied, "For your information, it was 2.16 billion in collected assets. And that was after I gave 90 percent to HYDRA and various charities. All seized by the government. But the money was never the point. It's a means to an end."
"Whatever."
She opened her mouth to speak further, but stopped when she heard the store's front door open. Rumlow drew a 9mm as he crouched behind a shelf, while Ellen hid across the aisle. A dozen men strolled inside, dressed in civilian clothes. Judging by their stances and builds, she guessed they were either military or intelligence operatives. "We're not here to hurt you," a bald man called as he stepped in front of the group. "We serve HYDRA."
Ellen jerked her head at the group, and Rumlow stood to aim his pistol. "Prove it," she replied.
"Code word: malaise."
She paused. They had the right code, at least. "Return: serenity." She stood and regarded the men, then nodded to Rumlow, who lowered his weapon. "Why are you here?"
"We were sent to deliver a message," the bald leader replied.
Rumlow scoffed. "Bullshit. It takes 12 of you to do that?"
"What's the message?" Ellen asked.
In response, the leader took out a cellphone from his pocket and tossed it towards her. Ellen caught it, and five seconds later it started ringing. Keeping her eyes on the group, she answered.
"Ellen Pierce, it has been too long," Daniel Whitehall greeted.
Of course. "Whitehall. You sent this welcome party for little old me?"
"I thought it fitting for someone of your station."
"So I can assume you sent these men to serve me, as a gesture of goodwill and loyalty on your part?" Some of the men strolled along the edge of the store, pretending to look around. They kept themselves casual, though Ellen spotted the bulges of weapons under their jackets. "Because, after all, you served at my father's pleasure, which means you now serve at my pleasure."
She heard him chuckle. "Not so much, no. In point of fact, those men are there to kill you."
Beside her, Rumlow's fingers flexed around the handle of his pistol. Ellen shook her head discreetly, not wanting him to escalate things before the time was right. "If it weren't for my father, you'd still be rotting in that shithole of a prison. Have you forgotten about that?"
"Of course not. I owed your father a great deal for what he did. But he has since served his purpose, just as you have. I was perfectly willing to let you remain in hiding. But once I heard you'd freed your old friend from the hospital, I knew it would only be a matter of time before you struck out on your own. The robbery earlier today confirmed my suspicions. So, for the greater good of HYDRA, I'm afraid you have to die. We can't have you drawing unnecessary attention on the rest of us."
Ellen scowled. "I'm surprised you have the balls to do this on your own. What do you suppose the Council will say about this?"
"Oh, the Council and I are in complete agreement," Whitehall said, giving her pause. "What? You thought they'd be on your side? You were a tool, Pierce. A quite useful one, but a tool, nonetheless. With the disaster you oversaw in Washington, it's become evident you are a dying head, one that HYDRA cannot afford to keep. So for the sake of the rest of us, you have to be excised."
She felt her face flush as her anger rose. "Listen, you Nazi bastard, I was the right hand of your leader, and if you think–"
"Don't try to lecture me on HYDRA's mission," Whitehall interrupted. "I was a disciple of the Red Skull himself. I devoted myself to the cause when your father was still in diapers. You and your father tried playing with your fancy toys, but in the end it amounted to nothing. I do admit, though, you surpassed my every expectation. You accomplished a great deal, for someone of your gender. Well done. But now it's time for your betters to lead the fight against our enemies. Know that your achievements will be long remembered. Farewell…Madame Hydra."
The call ended, and Ellen had to resist crushing the phone with her bare hand. Releasing a pent-up sight, she closed her eyes. She'd suspected something like this might happen, mostly due to the lack of contact from any other HYDRA agents over the last eight months. But to face such a betrayal, after everything she'd done for the organization? It felt like a punch to the gut.
Opening her eyes, she looked at the dozen men, who now surrounded her and Rumlow. Holding her arms wide, she said, "Before we get started, would anyone like to leave?" The agents looked at each other as a terrible silence fell. Ellen gave Rumlow a single nod.
The room exploded into action.
Rumlow raised his pistol and shot two of the men before they could react. Ellen drew a throwing knife from her belt and hurled it into the throat of another. A pair of thick arms wrapped around her chest, pinning her arms and squeezing tight. Gritting her teeth, she kicked up her feet and slammed them down, using the momentum to grapple the man pinning her to the floor. She drew a venom-coated knife and slashed his throat. As he bled and sputtered, Ellen kicked the knee of another man who tried to shoot her.
Across the aisle, Rumlow pistol-whipped an agent twice. He then caught and locked both arms of another, then head-butted the man, breaking his nose. A third drew a taser rod –dialing to the maximum setting– and jabbed it into Rumlow's back. The electricity crackled as it discharged enough voltage to knock out a Rhino.
"I don't work like that no more, asshole!" he growled, turning to knock aside the rod before using his thumbs to gouge out the agent's eyes.
Ellen slid back across the floor, narrowly avoiding a trio of bullets. She then retreated behind a shelf. Reaching into another belt pouch, she took out a small glass capsule filled with an amber liquid. Leaning from cover, she signaled Rumlow. He nodded, reaching over to grab a gas mask in one of the duffle bags. As soon as he put it on, Ellen threw the capsule at the centre of the room. It shattered on impact, releasing a thick mist that spread across the floor.
The remaining agents started to converge on them. Then, they all began choking and coughing as many dropped their guns and taser rods.
Panting, Ellen stood. Twirling the knife in her hand, she paced along the centre aisle. "According to legend," she said calmly as the nine men gasped for breath, their skin turning blue, "King Mithridates of Pontus lived in constant fear of assassination. He saw plots all around him. So he began ingesting small amounts of poison to develop an immunity. He's something of a role model for me."
One of the agents, falling to his knees, tried reaching out to her. She batted his hand away with a disdainful scorn.
"This little concoction is something of my own design," she explained. "After creating it, I inhaled tiny doses so my body would naturally develop an immune response. Then I had the enzymes used as the basis for a cure." She took a deep breath, inhaling the poisonous air. "That process was of the most painful experiences of my life. I was bedridden for nearly a month. I honestly thought I might die. But I pulled through, and became stronger for it."
Ellen crouched before one of the agents, who'd started bleeding from his nose and eyes. Rumlow watched her from the corner, breathing safe through his mask.
"That is what HYDRA represents. Victory through strength. Determination. The journey is filled with pain and suffering, but we endure it because that is what humanity needs. We fight, we bleed, for the greater good of the human race. Whitehall and the others have forgotten that. They've become slaves of their own ego, fattened by excess. I will continue HYDRA's mission. The others are nothing more than pretenders who deserve to die."
Strolling over to the table, she grabbed the second gas mask from the other duffle bag. Finding the bald agent who led the group, she tossed it onto his chest. The blood vessels in both his eyes burst –turning the sclera red– even as his face and fingertips turned black. He scrambled to put on the mask, gasping. Even with his new protection, he'd suffer permanent lung damage from the poison, along with subsequent effects from brain hemorrhage.
He'd likely die in a week.
"Tell Whitehall everything you saw here," Ellen told him. "Everything you heard. Tell him if he comes after me again, I will find him. I will make him suffer a slow, agonizing fate until he begs me for mercy. But I'll give him none, because he doesn't deserve it."
Patting the man on the shoulder, she walked back to the table and stuffed the stacks of Euros into the duffle bags. Rumlow helped her, unable to keep himself from staring. Once the bags were full, the two of them walked out the back door as the rest of the agents breathed their final, tortured, breaths.
As they walked through back alleys, Rumlow kept staring at her. Finally, Ellen, exasperated, asked, "What?"
"Sometimes I forget just how much of a ruthless bitch you can be."
She glared at him, but only for a moment. A part of her, a tiny part that manifested as a quiet, almost helpless voice in her head, had a thought. Ellen gave voice to that thought, and in a resigned tone, said, "I am what you made me."
Holy balls, that last episode of Moon Knight left me BROKEN!
Let me know if you enjoyed this chapter, and stay tuned for next week!
Vosck: Thanks! So glad you're enjoying it.